


i wish i dreamt in the shape of your mouth

by smallredboy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death In Dream, Conflicted Will Graham, Diary/Journal, Dreams and Nightmares, Insomnia, M/M, Pre-Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Pretentiousness, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Will refuses to sleep.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Froday Flash Fiction Regular Challenges 2020





	i wish i dreamt in the shape of your mouth

**Author's Note:**

> **bad things happen bingo:** insomnia  
>  **froday flash fiction challenge:** r20.06 sharp
> 
> enjoy!

The sharp pain of a headache has become routine for Will.

"At first it was a protest," he tells Hannibal with curious eyes, Hannibal's own glinting with interest.

"Toward being in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane?"

Will shakes his head. "Toward my own subconscious." He swallows. "My dreams have always been vivid and terrifying, Dr. Lecter, but I am well aware that they will only get worse now that you've done this to me." He shakes his head a little. "So I am stopping my dreams from the root, as it were."

"By not sleeping?"

"What other choice do I have?" he asks. "Ambien does not stop you from dreaming. Sleeping pills will only make me have nightmares for more hours."

"What nightmares are coiled beneath your pillow, Will?" he asks.

Will's stomach lurches at the question, and the pain gets sharper, harder against his skull. He swallows. "How you killed Abigail," he says. "How you prepared her flesh. Gave it to some poor unsuspecting fool. Probably Jack." He shakes his head. "I also have dreams where I kill you."

"Are those nightmares, Will, or dreams?"

"The difference is only in the reaction they give you, isn't it? You can have a horrifying dream, but you may wake up calm."

"The difference is for you to decide." Hannibal replies. "So tell me— when your subconscious conjures up images of you killing me, are they nightmares or dreams?"

Will clenches his jaw and looks down at his hands. "I wake up sweating, but I don't feel afraid. I wake up afraid… but of myself."

"Of what you're capable of. Of what your subconscious longs for." 

There's a long pause, and Will draws in a breath.

"Tell me, Will, how bloody are the dreams in which you kill me?"

 _Too bloody_ , he thinks. _I picture myself biting chunks of your throat off. I picture myself cutting off your tongue so you can stop tormenting me. Sometimes I still have encephalitis and I lose time and when I'm back to reality you are lying dead before me. I scream, always. But I don't scream when I wake up. When I wake up I'm fine. Calm. Cranky, even._

"Not enough," he lies. "You never bleed too much."

_The blood isn't blood, sometimes. Sometimes it's ichor._

*

Will only succumbs to sleep when his body is shutting down because of the lack of it. At first it was intentional; swerving nightmares, but now even when he wants to sleep he cannot. His little pieces of rest are short-lived and exhausting, waking him up even more tired than before. And that's not even counting the strange dreams he is given by them.

Hannibal prescribes him sleep medication— the first time he's prescribed him _anything_ , something he notices far too late into their game. He's a _psychiatrist_ ; for the charade to work even better he should've given him anti-psychotics or something. But that meant side effects that could possibly affect Hannibal's little game, so he understands. But he's mad at himself for not noticing that back then.

Sometimes the dreams aren't about killing Hannibal. Sometimes he's got blood in his mouth and he's not sure from who it is, but Hannibal leans in to wipe it off his lip. He dreams the Stag pierces Hannibal's body open with its antlers and his main anger is toward the fact it didn't let him do it himself. The Stag is not a benevolent creature, though. He knows that by now.

When he wakes up at 3:05 A.M., he is not particularly bothered by it. He's used to this routine, as much as the sharp headache comes back as soon as he's awake. The only good part of sleeping is the brief conviction that he is free from Hannibal Lecter's grip on him and the lack of pain.

He stands up and scrambles for his painkillers. He's used to this routine by now, of dreaming, waking and not bothering to sleep once again. Sometimes he goes outside so the cold chill of the night will wake him up. He's found himself wanting to start a diary. A mad man's writings— he can see his hypothetical diary being found by FBI agents when his time comes, undoubtedly at Hannibal's hands. _He was crazy_ , he can hear them say. _He was paranoid. Irrational._

He is rational. As rational as he can be with a snare around his neck and with the sharpness of ever lasting pain.

He sighs and picks up one of the notebooks he bought back in January; it feels like years ago and not five months ago. January is decades away from him, a faint memory of when he was simply a FBI academy teacher trying to escape his neuroses.

He grabs a pen and he goes outside, the chill of the night welcoming him with open arms. He's aware that his sweat will cool down and will probably make him get a cold, but he doesn't care.

He props his notebook against the wooden floor of his little terrace, lays down on it. The wind makes his damp shirt ride up, and he shivers.

_It'd be easy to hate Hannibal Lecter, but I don't think I do. As much as my dreams tell me I could, or that I should, or that I would if I was a normal person. But not being normal is what got me here._

His handwriting is scrawly, in that point in between legible and doctor's notes. He feels like he's throwing up into the page, a word-vomit of all he feels and all he doesn't feel for Hannibal Lecter. It's complicated, it's ugly, and it's a word vomit more than anything coherent or anything deserving of praise for its poetic capability. He thought his thoughts could be a bit prettier. A bit tastier. They're not.

He considers showing it to Hannibal, but he knows that will only feed his ego. Paragraphs upon paragraphs of him talking about how he does not hate him, as much as he should.

He won't give him that satisfaction. If anything, he'll keep his little diary as hidden as possible, so when Hannibal comes into his house without invitation he won't find it.


End file.
